


The Golden Cufflink

by tooyoungtobesostressed



Series: Disney Princes [1]
Category: Cinderella - All Media Types
Genre: Asher - Freeform, Ball, Child Abuse, Cinderella - Freeform, Cinderella Elements, Cufflink, F/M, Fairy Godfather, Family Death, Gen, Genderbend Fairytales, Genderswap Cinderella, Male Cinderella, Only Asher's POV, Princess Charmant, Pumpkin - Freeform, Stepbrothers, Stepfather, WWII, kingdom - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2021-01-25 10:58:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21355156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tooyoungtobesostressed/pseuds/tooyoungtobesostressed
Summary: A modern retelling of the fairy tale: Cinderella. Draws parts from the many different versions of this story, including the author's twists and style.
Series: Disney Princes [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1605280
Comments: 27
Kudos: 24





	The Golden Cufflink

There’s a story that is only ever told on one day of the year. The only day his mother dared speak it aloud; the only day she knew it wouldn’t tear her to pieces. Erik knew she thought of it often, but it was only on July 12th that she would tell it again: the story of the day Rosanna Grazioli met Theodore James.

He was a British soldier that fought during the Allied Invasion of Sicily, and she was doctor for the Italian Co-Belligerent Army. They were fighting on the same team, from different sides of the country- and they’d met completely by accident. Theodore had driven too far into the city, had passed many doctors and nurses, in his confusion and haste to get himself and his friend to a hospital.

“Teo was losing lots of blood from his gunshot wound,” Rosanna would say in her deep, melodic voice. Her strong and course hands ran through her thirteen-year-old son’s dark, curly hair as he leaned against her legs, sat on the floor while she sat in her favourite armchair. “He was saying the silliest things,” she chuckled. “Had it not been a situation of life or death, I would have laughed at his mumbling all night.”

With the time’s limited resources, his journey to health was long and hard; but Rosanna never left his side for long. The two had grown to love one another and promised, with all their hearts, that they would see each other again when the war was over.

Two years later, Theodore found her again, and the pair got married and moved to France to start a new life, both making a living as successful merchants. Not long after, Rosanna gave birth to a boy who they named Erik, after the child’s paternal grandfather.

Erik already knew this story; he’d heard it every year since he could remember. But still, he listened quietly; eyes closed and warmth spreading through his body at every word, savouring every detail. “We used to take you with us on our journeys when you were very young, Erik. You fell straight to sleep when the carriage started moving.”

His mother had a thick Italian accent. Although her French was excellent, she still couldn’t help softening words with an ending vowel. The way she said her husband’s and her son’s names made the young boy smile; Theodore changed to Teo, and Erik became Erik-e.

Rosanna ruffled her son’s hair. “But soon you became too old to come with us, and us two stayed at home while Teo continued the business. It broke his heart every time he had to leave.”

Erik remembered his father leaving for his trips, showering his wife and his son in thousands of kisses before even drawing up the courage to walk to the door. Erik would run after the carriage as long as he could, waving goodbye. He was too young to understand that his father would be gone for several months, but old enough to miss his warm glow and his joyful laughter.

Rosanna fell silent, as she does when she thinks of this time with her husband- a time she couldn’t have known would end so soon. She used to tell this story with her husband’s head in her lap, telling silly jokes and distracting the story with random anecdotes, bouncing young Erik on his stomach or tickling the boy until he couldn’t breathe. Rosanna would cover his mouth, partially to continue the story, and partially so Teo would look up at her mischievously, his blue eyes glittering with love and contentment.

She felt movement at her knees and looked down. Her boy was looking up at her with that same expression, made his own only with the brown of his eye and the concern in his brow. She had paused for too long.

Rosanna kissed her son’s forehead and smiled sadly. “You are so much like him, Mimmo. So intelligent and kind.” She looked forwards into the fireplace and mumbled, “the light of my life.”

Erik was eight years old when his father died of influenza. Though he was gone, Theodore’s life remained in paintings, in creased furniture, in his favourite songs, and in his dog-tags Erik never took off.

Theodore James’ death left a void in mother and son, a void only eased in each other’s presence. Now here they were, relishing in one-another’s company, perfectly content to stay this way forever.

But it couldn’t be. After just having returned from her long trip gathering medical supplies to sell, Rosanna would be leaving again the next morning on her first merchant journey since Erik had been a toddler. They were still well to do, but Rosanna wanted to make sure Erik had a bountiful inheritance- it had been her and Theodore’s wish.

Erik was old enough to be left in the care of their trusted staff, but Rosanna had a strong sense of foreboding. She had initially blamed it on this being her first journey without her husband, but knew there was more. Erik needs a father as he grows into a young man, and she would keep her heart open to any possibilities as she stepped into the outside world once more.

* * *

Three months later, Rosanna returned with news.

After they celebrated her return, Rosanna became solemn. Taking Erik in her arms, she heaved a sigh and looked him in the eyes, hands on his shoulders. “Erik,” she began. “You don’t remember him, but Sir Francis Tremaine was a loyal customer of your father and I. He is a nice man, and he and his wife often allowed us to stay at their house when we needed a place to stay on the road.”

Erik frowned at her, wondering why she seemed so downtrodden. “Are they alright?”

“No, mimmo. Lady Tremaine passed a little before Teo, giving birth to their second son.”

Erik’s heart ached for them. He never wished that pain upon anyone, and wondered how they were. Heartache like this doesn’t subside quite like physical injury does.

His mother searched his eyes. “Francis was forced to stop working to look after his sons, so they are struggling for money. His wife’s death has hardened him, but he still found it in his heart to allow me to stay when I was too tired to travel. He showed me such kindness and he loves his sons so.”

Erik looked into her eyes and found her expression to be pleading. There was something in the way she was talking to him; as if explaining- justifying- something. “Do you want to marry him?”

Rosanna smiled through complex emotions. “Yes mimmo, I think he would be an excellent father. We deserve another shot at happiness, do you think?”

At that moment, a silent agreement was made between mother and son, but they had both misunderstood each other. Rosanna knew she could never love another, but only wanted the best for her son, believing that to be a father figure. Eric hadn’t realized his mother may be unhappy, and knew that anyone who made his mother happy had a place in his heart.

Erik looked up at his mother, who was still a little taller than him. She was beautiful, the warmth inside her escaped into the brown of her eyes, that black of her hair. They shared the same curl, the same olive skin tone, and the same prominent facial structure. She was strong and she was tall. She was an oak; nothing could knock his mother down. His father had always loved that about her, even in their arguments. She was practical where he was theoretical. She was hardened where he was soft. She was stubborn where he was care-free. He was intelligent and witty, and she had this old wisdom about her, a deep understanding and knowledge of the world that made her powerful. She was in her prime, but she had seen much. Erik cherished every ounce of happiness the world spared for her.

He smiled and hugged her tightly, breathing in her scent of pine and fresh air. “Yes mamma, I think we do.”

* * *

The marriage was short and modest- as it was a marriage of understanding, not love.

Though this was understood between the newly wed couple, Francis Tremaine wished it to be different. He had fallen heavily for his beautiful new wife, and harboured resentment for this. He felt ashamed to have found love again after his late wife; he felt rejected at being denied mutual adoration; and he was jealous that only two men had ever been worthy of Rosanna’s love, one her husband and the other her son.

Nevertheless, he was a supportive husband in all ways he knew how. His new wife had wished to continue her business, and he gave up his experience and skill as a revenue officer to allow her to do so. He moved into their house, although it was smaller and bared no resemblance to his previous, more modern home. He was not, however, sure what he should do with the boy, Erik. Tremaine couldn’t look at the handsome young man without inflaming his resentments, and so proceeded to largely ignore him.

Erik’s stepbrothers, Alexander and Durrell, followed their father’s example for the most part. Before they even met Erik, they’d decided they didn’t like him. He was the reason they had to move; he was the reason their father was abandoning the memory of their mother. Even after they met their stepbrother, their hatred only intensified. Erik got everything he wanted so easily. He caught every girls’ eye when he walked past them. He had his own horse. He was smart. He could sing and play the piano better than anyone they’d ever heard. It was infuriating, so they hated him. It was only for the sake of their father that they let their stepbrother be.

The next couple of months were filled with the kind of natural tension that was to pass with time. The new family would learn to love one another as they came to know more of each other. Erik knew this, and was content to give it time. He didn’t force his presence on his stepfamily and allowed them time to settle in. He offered his help and he made them feel as comfortable as he could.

He tried not to become disheartened at their obvious discomfort around him. When it became hard, when it seemed like his stepfamily hated him, his mother would frown at her son’s unease.

“We’ll give them the benefit of the doubt mimmo, their whole lives just changed.” Rosanna pulled her teenage son to her and embraced his warmth. “But you tell me if anything makes you uncomfortable?”

“I’m sure it’s nothing, mamma.”

“It’s not nothing if you’re upset, Erik,” she told him earnestly. “Makes me think if I should even go tomorrow…”

Eric knew how much it stressed his mother to stay idle. “No, no mamma. I think it’s okay. You’re right, they just need more time.” He smiled at his mother, who still seemed unsure. “Like dad always said: The purest form of bravery-”

“-is kindness in the face of hostility,” his mother chuckled, her eyes shining. She absentmindedly touched the side of her son’s face. “So proud. We’re so proud.”

* * *

Neither mother nor son would know that this was the last evening they would spend together.

A month had gone by since Erik’s mother left on her merchant journey when news of her passing returned. She had been caught in a storm days after she left the house and died of pneumonia several weeks later.

When Erik heard the words leave the messenger’s mouth, he stopped breathing. He was afraid to validate this information with life, with time. He felt a cold numbness stab his chest, and spread like a poison through his body. It couldn’t be true- it couldn’t be _real_. She had _just been_ _here._ He remembers it, she had barely left through the front gates.

“I’m truly sorry, Erik.” Erik looked up at the messenger. He couldn’t stand the short man apologizing to him. He couldn’t stand the short man deciding for him that the news was real.

_Bravery is kindness, Erik. _

Erik gazed at the man. “Thank you. I’m sorry you had to carry that burden on your travels.” In a daze, he turned to close the door.

“One moment Erik,” Erik heard Francis speak behind him. He had been there the whole time without Erik realizing it. “What of the will?”

Erik’s fists clenched. What _of_ the will?

The short man shuffled uncomfortably. “It seems Ms. James hadn’t yet amended her will, thus, her joint will with her late husband stands.” He mumbled. “Erik will receive the entirety of the inheritance- the majority of which will only be released when he is of age.”

This information flew over Erik’s head. He wanted to be alone. He heard his stepfather walk away and bid the messenger farewell before closing the door. He turned to climb the stairs to his room, still in shock, when someone called out to him sharply.

“Where are you going?”

His stepfather had been sitting in the drawing room, visible only now that Eric was at the bottom of the stairs. Erik whipped around and saw him stand up slowly, almost menacingly.

“I’m sorry,” he could feel his eyes fill with tears and desperately wanted to mourn alone, but he hadn’t even thought of comforting his mother’s husband. “I should’ve asked. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” the older man snapped. “Never mind that.”

“You’re angry, I understand. It was hard-”

“You understand, do you? _You_ _understand_?” Francis was closer to Eric now, anger clear in his features. “How could _you_, a stupid, spoilt, waste-of-space-child understand?”

Erik tensed. Anger warmed his arms. “I’m sorry?” He asked through gritted teeth.

“I am left here in this ugly, old house. No money, no wife, no inheritance to speak of.” Francis sneered, stepping even closer. “Just a useless wretch taking up the little space we have. So, I ask again: Where are you going?”

Erik was sure this was a nightmare. “I- uh, I was going-”

“Spit it out!” Francis yelled as he slapped the boy hard on the cheek.

Eric stumbled back, looking at the man in disbelief.

“Where?”

“M- my room,” Erik stuttered, his cheek smarting painfully.

“Oh no, not anymore.” An evil smile filled the man’s blue eyes with hatred. His face flushed, standing out against his carefully groomed blonde hair. “I’ve already sent my sons to get rid of your things. You’ll be living in the attic from now on.”

“But, why- I mean, what-”

“Be quiet!” Francis hissed. “I’m ordering you to fire all of the house staff immediately, we only have a little bit of money until you turn eighteen.”

Erik froze at the thought of letting go of the staff. They had all been with his family since before he was born. His family payed them well, and he knew new work was hard to find. “But-”

Francis raised his hand in threat. Erik stepped back and fell silent.

“From now on, _boy_” he spat, “_you’ll_ do all the work, and I expect it to be done well. You will address me as Sir, and my boys as master. Since you’ve decided to hoard your inheritance,” the man snarled, “we’ll be making a lot of changes here. And remember,” Sir Francis was so close, Erik had to look up to return his glare. “You forget any of these things, you step a foot out of line? I won’t hesitate to beat you and break you to my will. Is _that_ understood?”

Erik looked at Sir Francis. He wanted to cry for his mother, he wanted to mourn her passing. He wanted to honour his parents by remaining in this house, no matter how his body was screaming at him to run. He wanted to run to his parents, he wanted to wake up from this nightmare. He wanted to run.

_The purest form of bravery is kindness in the face of hostility._

His cheek stung. A cruel reminder that he wasn’t sleeping.

“Understood.”

* * *

The following five years were not kind to Erik.

He hadn’t been able to mourn his mother’s death. His stepfamily made sure he never had any time to spare. After a tearful goodbye to the house staff, Erik had been forced to quickly learn how to run the house seamlessly, or the punishment would be severe.

He discovered soon that Sir Tremaine had allowed his sons to discipline Erik also, whether justified or not. Only one rule kept them from breaking the young boy completely, which was to leave his fingers and legs in working condition to complete his chores. Erik learned not to plead or cry. His efforts were always fruitless and would only grant him a sore throat and injury to his mouth.

He dreamed often. Of the past, of the future. Of a time surrounded by love and warmth, of a time to be, when he would be able to escape alive. He knew it was Sir Tremaine’s wish to kill him when he became of age- the only thing keeping him from doing so earlier was their need of a slave. So, he dreamed of anywhere except the present. He did his chores absentmindedly. He endured his stepfamily’s discipline in as much silence as his pain allowed. He found refuge in his short trips to town when the house needed groceries and other materials.

It was terribly lonely.

Erik would often sing his father’s favourite songs and his mother’s beautiful Italian lullabies to himself when he could no longer bare it; when the silence suffocated him and left him to his thoughts, which constantly reminded him that he was unworthy of his stepfamily’s love, or even of a second chance.

So, he would sing. Sing when he was mending and cleaning his wounds, sing when the grumble of his stomach was too loud to ignore, sing when he was forced to work late into the night or out in the cold.

He wouldn’t sing near his stepfamily. They hated his songs; they hated his voice. They hated him.

They hated him so much, that after an especially cold night, when Erik, aged fourteen, decided to sleep by the dying embers in the kitchen instead of the icy attic, they took one look at his ashen face and forbade him to ever eat with them again.

“Boy, you look dirty and disgusting. My sons having to sit in your presence while they eat is unacceptable.”

“Yeah, what’s on your face, freak?”

“It looks like ash, Alexander… I know what we could call him! Ashy Erik!”

Erik’s stepbrothers laughed as the boy served them their breakfast, desperate to leave now that he was forbidden to eat with them. “Dirty Erik!” Alexander snorted.

Erik’s jaw clenched. He hated when they spoke of him as though he were not there.

“Asherik!” Durrell squealed in delight while his father laughed heartily.

“Oh, you boys are so clever.”

More laughter. Then, the brothers yelled in unison: “Asher!”

Asher left the room hurriedly, fueled by their laughter. Even after a year, their cruelty towards him filled him with anger that tensed his whole body. But he had learnt to keep quiet. Self-defence was not worth the injury that followed.

* * *

Now, Asher was older. He had a few months until he turned eighteen and his semblance was strikingly hansom. He couldn’t walk throughout the town without causing a stir, although he never thought of himself this way. His stepbrothers were determined to beat the image of his own ugliness into him, and thus Asher was always afraid the townspeople were disgusted by his unsure speech, his beaten body, his oddly shaved hair, and his ragged clothes.

Nevertheless, his years of servitude had taken a toll on Asher’s body. He was strong like his mother and his body well defined with years of hard work, but malnourishment and ill-treatment had denied him the height of his parents. Alexander and Durrell were not taller than him by much, but they still punished him for his height. They would laugh at how Asher was no taller than a girl, or they would place his tools upon cupboards too high for him the reach, then push Asher off the stool he was stood on the retrieve his belongings. Asher himself wasn’t much bothered by his height. It was just another excuse for his stepbrothers to give him grief, as was his hair. He kept his black, curly hair loosely shaved everywhere apart from the top of his head. He had been forced to shave the sides of his head after his hair became matted from his nights of sleeping on the ground, but he hadn’t wanted to shave it all. His stepfather especially hated the haircut; he thought it looked foreign- which, to Sir Tremaine, was a bad thing.

Asher pushed the thought of his stepbrothers and his stepfather out of his mind as he whipped past the woods on either side of him. It was a beautiful day. He finally had time to go into town and pick up some groceries. The wind rustled through his hair as he and his gorgeous black horse, Rose, rode into town- the only reason he had been allowed to keep her. He loved their trips together, loved the rhythm of her canter, the calm she brought. She flew down the used path into town, overjoyed to finally have some exercise again. Sir Tremaine refused to let her graze and walk about on the estate, so she was always locked in her stable. Asher took her to town whenever he could and they rode as fast as she could, imagining they were leaving Asher’s horrible stepfamily behind.

Asher laughed. This was the only time he felt truly free.

They slowed down too soon, already at the edge of town. Here, only royals and royal officials were permitted to ride on top of their horses, so Asher promptly jumped down and led Rose into town.

In was a beautiful place- Asher loved it. Little shops offering different services and products surrounded the place, complete with the yelling and advertising that came with them. Masters and apprentices of different trades hurried about, finishing their orders and always perfecting their craft. Townspeople milled about, holding food, water, clothes, anything they needed, laughing and chatting about with their friends. The sounds and smells of various animals occasionally broke through the noise, adding to the character of the atmosphere. Asher looked up and saw the ever-present royal castle looming above the town, beautiful and protective. He smiled.

He didn’t have a lot of time, so he wouldn’t be able to say hello to the various shopkeepers who were often kind to him. He knew they would understand, but still couldn’t keep himself from smiling and waving at the few who saw him walk by.

He heard some girls giggling by him and looked up at the sound. There was a group of three ladies his age by the fountain that he always tethered Rose by. They were often there in various numbers, but Asher had never gotten to know them. They were always giggling and waving at him, and this time was no different. It suddenly made him aware of his ragged clothes, his hair, and his old shoes. His face flushed and he hung his head, skirting around them and in the direction of the fruit and vegetable stands.

He didn’t get far before he ran right into another person.

“Oof!” He heard a girl’s voice exclaim as he fell backwards on his rump. He heard the sound of metal clanging beside him. “Watch it! That could’ve seriously hurt you!”

“Sorry!” He returned quickly, searching for whatever fell beside him. When he saw it, he gasped. It was a beautifully crafted sword, with precious stones encrusted on its hilt. He didn’t think his dirty hand should touch it, but he picked it up and stood, facing it’s owner.

He was met with a pair of enchanting green eyes. The beautiful lady in front of him was his age. She stood as tall as him, with curly, honey-blond hair. She had sounded irritated, but now her face bore an expression of shock.

“Uh- this is yours. Sorry.” Asher returned the sword to her. It looked like she had been practicing with it. He looked behind her at the blacksmith’s shop, then back at her. Asher couldn’t tell what she would be doing here. He thought she could be an apprentice of some sort, but her clothes were clean, and she wasn’t wearing an apron. He wondered if the sword was hers. It looked like it belonged to royalty, but she was wearing regular clothes and had no guards or horses with her.

_Her face is fit for royalty._

She was still staring at him, dumbfounded.

“Um,” he began, unsure, “are you an apprentice?” He nodded at the shop behind her.

“What?” She looked back, her hair bouncing on against her shoulders. “You don’t know who I am?” She asked when she turned back.

Asher blushed. He didn’t know many people. He was never allowed to spend much time in town, and he was afraid he would scare off anyone who tried to befriend him. “No, sorry. I don’t know many-”

“I am an apprentice, yes!” She gave him a dazzling smile. “I was just checking the balance of the princess’s sword.”

Asher saw movement behind her and saw the master blacksmith walk out from the forge behind the store. He had heard the blacksmith’s apprentice had graduated and moved elsewhere, but this was the first time he was seeing the girl stood in front of him, and she was too old to be starting an apprenticeship.

The blacksmith saw the two of them and his eyes widened. “Princess-!”

“Yes!” The girl interrupted quickly, turning to face the blacksmith. “The princess- her sword is ready, I checked it myself!”

The blacksmith raised his eyebrows and looked at Asher, suddenly smiling. Asher blushed, the distinct feeling that he was interrupting something washing over him. He moved to walk around the shop when the girl turned back around.

“Wait!” She put a gentle hand on Asher’s chest to stop him. She looked down at her hand and blushed, quickly taking it away. “What do they call you?”

Asher looked at his shoes, torn by the feeling of wanting to be with her longer and feeling unworthy of her presence. “Never mind what they call me.”

He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked into her eyes again. Her lips parted hesitantly, then: “I want to see you again.”

Asher’s heart filled with warmth. He couldn’t hold back the smile that formed slowly. “I feel the same.”

The sound of hooves hitting the cobbled road made the girl turn around suddenly. When she faced him again, she said, “I have to go.” She hurried into the shop behind her, only turning around to say: “My name is Charlotte. I will see you again.” And then she and the sword were gone.

Asher stood there for a moment, in a daze. He wanted to run after her, to know more about her. _Charlotte_. The name was a sweet melody on her tongue. _She wanted to see me again_.

The sound of approaching horses became louder, breaking Asher out of his bewilderment. He had to get his groceries and leave quickly. He’d already been gone for too long.

The rest of the day passed in a daze. A faint smile brightened his face as he and Rose walked to the house, a basket of groceries on Asher’s lap. He hummed a low tune as he led Rose back into her stable and put the food away. He was just about to begin dinner when he heard a knock on the main door.

As he walked to the door, he thought of her. He tried to shake her out of his mind, but he couldn’t. She had touched him so gently, spoken to him so kindly.

_She wanted to see me again._

Asher wouldn’t rest until she did.

* * *

Asher was woken up earlier than usual this morning by the stirring of Theo the cat, who had apparently fallen asleep snuggled up against Asher’s warm stomach as the boy lay by the fireplace. Asher had found Theo as a kitten hiding in the greenhouse, terrified of Sir Tremaine’s vicious dog, Brutus. He had been ordered to drown the cat as it was dividing the attention of his stepfather’s beloved hunting dog. As his biggest act of rebellion since the death of his mother, Asher had taken the kitten in, and it had fit into his group of friends perfectly. Theo largely left the geese and the mice that kept Asher company alone, except to chase them around occasionally. He was particularly fond of anything large and warm, which included the fireplace; Asher himself; and Rose.

It was a slowly acquired family, but each of them brightened the darkness in Asher’s life, even if just for a moment. Theo especially seemed to be able to read Asher’s emotions and pain. On particularly difficult nights, be it after a beating or longing for better times, he would curl into Asher and purr until the boy slept.

This morning, however, the cat woke the boy up from a sweet dream.

Asher stood slowly, wincing. His left arm lay limply at his side, and he could feel every single one of his ribs protest at the movement, making both standing and breathing extremely painful. He glared at Theo, who meowed softly at the young man.

“Thanks for that, Theo.” He wanted to itch the cat’s ears, but knew his ribs wouldn’t allow it. “I was having the nicest dream.” He stared into the fireplace, trying to hold on to the disappearing images of his parents, a table full of food, him and Rose cantering in the woods, and of _her_; Charlotte.

He wished he could sleep forever.

Theo chirped hungrily, and Asher looked down at him, smiling. “I know buddy, I know.”

After feeding Theo and leaving some cheese and bread in the corner of the room for the mice, Asher put on his shoes and stepped outside, the cold morning air making his shoulder ache. Though he tried not to think of it, flashes of the previous afternoon came back to him as he fed and watered the remainder of the animals and groomed Rose.

“Hello, beautiful” he greeted as he let himself into the stables. Rose was already awake, regarding him with kind, youthful eyes. He talked to her soothingly, knowing she was always impatient for exercise. He promised to take her out after lunch- he had to pick up some sewing materials and some formal garments in town.

As he watered and kept the garden, his every movement brought him pain, which inevitably forced him to relive his discipline. He had made a silly mistake, and Sir Francis had sent his sons upon Asher.

_There was a knock on the door. Asher hurried to open it, finding a man behind the door, dressed as a royal messenger. Asher knew this would require the whole household’s attention._

_“Sir Francis! Master Alexander, master Durrell!”_

_He waited to hear the movement of his stepfamily, then turned back to the messenger. _

_“Hello! How are you doing? Is there anything I can get you?”_

_The messenger froze for a moment, looking at Asher in disbelief._

_“Erik?”_

_Asher’s heart pounded at that voice. He hadn’t heard it in so long. He heard his stepbrothers come down the stairs behind him and Sir Francis’ footsteps stop beside Asher, who was taking a closer look at the messenger. It was the same messenger that had brought him the news of his mother’s passing. It seems he’d been promoted in the last five years._

_“Uh, hello-”_

_“Why are you dressed like a servant? You are not looking well at all. Are you alright, son?”_

_Asher hadn’t known what to say. He was left stuttering, reeling to find an answer; shivering from his stepfamily’s icy presence behind him._

_He flinched as Sir Tremaine clasped a hard hand on his shoulder. “He is doing well, thank you. What can we do for you today?”_

_The messenger studied Asher for a moment longer, then straightened, pulling out a long scroll from behind his back. Asher barely heard the royal proclamation, but he understood what it meant. The princess was turning eighteen and was having a ball to pick a royal suitor, but the whole kingdom was invited. It would be held the following week, and every eligible young man was expected to be there. Asher wished the messenger would stop speaking, as every word hardened his stepfather’s grip on his shoulder._

_Asher’s wish was fulfilled too soon as, after receiving a sad look from the messenger, the door was closed, and the entrance hall was deathly silent. _

_A rough push from behind turned Asher around to face his stepfamily._

_“What was that?” Sir Tremaine snarled. _

_Asher’s stomach fluttered in fright. “I’m sorry, I completely-”_

_“You’re _sorry?_” The older man looked furious. His sons smiled hungrily._

_Asher stepped back. “Please don’t. I’m sorry- please.”_

_Alexander rushed forward with the smell of fear. He slammed Asher awkwardly into the door behind him. Asher gasped as he felt his shoulder being pushed from its position. He fell to the ground, struggling to keep his eyes dry. He hated how pain could still make him cry. _

_“Please,” he looked up at his stepbrothers. Durrell had joined his brother, both stood above Asher menacingly. “It was a mistake.”_

_“You will address us-” Durrell growled as he brutally kicked Asher’s side, “as-” it seemed Durrell was unsatisfied with the painful grunts that escaped Asher. He wanted more, so he kicked harder “-Master!” _

_It wasn’t long until the boys were both on Asher, kicking his ribs until he yelled. Asher curled in on himself, looking through their legs to see Sir Tremaine walk away from the scene. He shut his eyes and grit his teeth- they would get tired soon enough._

Today, however, his stepfamily left him alone. They scolded him for taking too long to finish his chores, but they were too anxious for Asher to retrieve the garments they had ordered over the phone to touch him. They practically shooed him out of the house after lunch was served, so excited were they.

See, Sir Tremaine had decided that, while the messenger made it clear the princess would only choose a royal suitor, she wouldn’t have invited every young man if she didn’t want to view all the options. Thus, one of his boys would be the one to catch the princess’ eye. Her wealth and her stature will bring the Tremaine name the riches it deserves, and they would no longer have use of their ugly house or their wretched slave and his inheritance.

Asher also wanted to go to the ball, but not to steal the heart of the princess. He wanted to see _her_. He wasn’t even sure she would go, but he planned to ask her when he was in town today.

_Charlotte._

He scolded himself. He knew he was being stupid. He knew it with every step Rose took into town, with every wince, with every gasp his ribs drew out of him. He was a wretch. He wasn’t worthy of such a name, never mind such a lady.

As he walked into town to pick up the garments, he walked past the blacksmith’s shop again. He saw the master blacksmith, but no apprentice.

“Erik!” The blacksmith yelled. “Are you alright?”

Asher jumped. He hadn’t even known the blacksmith knew his name. He suddenly felt ashamed not to have known his. Asher walked to the shop hesitantly. “I was- err, I was wondering where Charlotte is…”

The blacksmith chortled. “Oh, you won’t find her here. Not today, anyway.”

Asher nodded, trying to hide his embarrassment. He thanked the man and turned to walk away.

“You ever thought of becoming an apprentice?”

Asher turned back around, smiling brightly at him. “Yes! When I was little, I wanted to become a blacksmith- I’ve always respected the work.”

The blacksmith raised his eyebrows. “And why don’t you? You’re almost of age, I know, but I could always use the help of a smart, strong man like you.”

Asher’s smile faded. He thought of his stepfamily.

“It might even,” the blacksmith said in a low tone, “get you away from _them_.”

Asher looked at the ground. He couldn’t escape the Tremaines and he couldn’t leave the house. He knew the blacksmith meant well, but suddenly he felt claustrophobic. He remembered Sir Tremaine’s plans with him once he became of age.

“Think about it, hm?” He heard the blacksmith say.

He smiled his thanks to the man and turned once more to leave before he stopped. “Will, uh. Will Charlotte be at the ball?” He asked, trying to speak with dignity in his voice,

The blacksmith’s eyes sparkled knowingly. “That, she most certainly will.”

* * *

The day of the ball came quickly.

The excitement in the air was undeniable, and had been especially invigorated by the decorations added to the Royal Castle.

After several trips into town, Asher had his stepfamily’s garments expertly fitted and tailored. His stepbrothers looked good. They shared the same features as their father and were both hansom- Durrell more ruggedly so,- standing with the confidence and heir of royalty. This was instilled into them by their father, who had been instructing them on how to act, eat, speak, and dance in preparation for the ball. They were all so excited they largely left Asher free of injury.

For that, he was grateful. He wouldn’t have been able to stand feeling ashamed in front of so many people- in front of Charlotte.

He couldn’t wait to see her.

He had taken out his finest clothing- his father’s Temperate Ceremonial dress blues,- for the occasion. He didn’t own anything more formal than this uniform, and had felt so close to his father when he first tried it on.

It had required modification, however, and he was glad for his friends in this feat. The suit had belonged to a taller person, therefore Asher had hemmed and adjusted it. As he worked, the mice reattached and tightened the many buttons on the suit, and Theo brought Asher any thread he needed- after he was done playing with it, of course.

When the suit was complete, Asher tried it on and beamed at his friends. It fit well enough, and almost made him feel like he would fit into the crowd.

That was until he joined his stepfamily to enter the carriage they had bought for the occasion.

Sir Tremaine had recoiled when he saw Asher rushing to meet them. “_What on earth_ are you doing here, boy?”

This caught Alexander and Durrell’s attention. They turned around and laughed at the boy standing in front of them, fidgeting.

“I’m going to the ball with you. Everyone was invited.”

Sir Tremaine sneered. “Everyone that is a someone, _wretch_. Why would we allow you to bring shame to us? Why would anyone want a _servant _boy there?”

Asher felt his neck flush. He glared at his stepfather. “I’ll stay away, if that pleases you. I just want to go to see a friend-”

“You don’t have any friends. You’re a freak.” Alexander stated, matter of factly.

Durrell snorted. “And what the hell are you wearing?”

“It’s my- my father’s uniform.” Asher stuttered, suddenly feeling the urge to flee from his stepbrothers’ eager smiles. “It didn’t cost you a thing,” he told Sir Tremaine. “Please, just one night.”

“Oh no, that won’t do. Will it, boys?” Sire Tremaine glanced at his sons, who shook their heads excitedly. “You have chores to do, and you’ll be too busy trying to salvage this ugly suit, don’t you think?”

Asher stepped back. “Why-?”

With incredible speed, Sir Tremaine tore the suit’s stitching at the shoulder. The sound sent chills down Asher’s spine. He thought of his father, his mother, his friends- everyone who had helped him in the mending of the suit. He looked at the shoulder, not believing what had just been done to it.

“How could you d-”

“You _belong to me_. I can do anything I want to you, _boy_,” Sir Tremaine swiftly backhanded his stepson. He smiled as he watched Asher stumble back, the way he always does, as if he still couldn’t believe he had been struck. _Spoilt child_. “See?”

Alexander and Durrell chortled, taking this as an invitation. Alexander stepped forward and pulled the torso of the suit apart, popping off all the buttons.

“No- don’t-!”

Asher’s pleading was stopped with a hard punch in his stomach. He was pushed onto the floor and left to catch his breath, doubled over in pain.

“Boys, enough” Asher heard Sir Tremaine command. “We have somewhere to be.”

Asher tried to breathe as he heard the carriage pull away. He tried not to think about his torn suit, instead focusing on the pain in his stomach. Anger coursed through his veins uselessly, as it always does when his stepfamily beat him. His fists would clench, his teeth would grit, and his shoulders would tense- all for nothing. Because another emotion released his anger, made it wither away. Utter, lonely hopelessness chided him for feeling wronged, told him there was nothing he could do. The Tremaines were untouchable. They held everything he loves in the palm of their hands, and so he was chained.

Tears fell down his cheeks no matter how much he fought against them. He felt pathetic, sitting on the gravel in a torn suit. He _is_ pathetic.

He jumped when something nuzzling his arm brought him out of his trance. He knew that smell, that breathing. He looked up.

“Rose?”

There she was. Her beautiful black eyes and coat gleaming. He wasn’t sure how she’d gotten out of her stable, but he didn’t care. He needed her. Her expression was filled with unspoken wisdom, overflowing emotion. He stood to stroke her, about to lead her back into the stables, when he noticed someone sitting on top of her. His heart stopped.

Asher’s breath caught in his throat. He felt nauseous as his stomach stretched In his fear.

The man was rather plump- that was the first thing Asher noticed. Not many people that lived outside of the Royal Castle could afford to be plump, though Asher wasn’t sure what that meant, because his clothes told a different story. He was dressed like a friar, with a full robe and a loose hood over his head; but this robe was entirely dark purple, and it shimmered slightly as the sun set. The man was looking at Asher with a kind, intelligent, grey-bearded face. His expression was sympathetic; though not the kind of sympathy Asher usually ran from. It was the kind of sympathy that offered aid, love, comfort in return. Even his grey eyes glittered, instantly making Asher feel like this man knew everything about him.

“Uh, hello!” Asher wasn’t sure what to do. A strange man had made his way into his stables, taken his horse, and was now looking at him as if Asher should recognize him. “Is there anything I can help you with, sir?”

The man chuckled deeply, almost melodically. “Oh no, my dear boy. You’ve done enough of that. Tonight, I help you.”

Asher gazed at the man. The longer he was in his presence, smelling his peculiar scent, hearing his deep voice, Asher was beginning to realize he _did_ remember something of this man. Even if it were just a glow, a warmth present on the days when Asher couldn’t stand the silence and the pain.

“Who are you?”

The man waved the question away. “Ah, lots of names, lots of names. Not all accurate.” He looked at Asher, smiling mischievously. “For you, let’s say… I am your Fairy Godmother.”

“Godmother?”

“Yes.”

“You mean… You mean Godfather?”

“Oh,” the man looked at his legs and touched his beard, surprised. “Yes, I suppose so.” He chuckled again. “I suppose that it what you need tonight. A Fairy Godfather.”

Asher stepped back hesitantly. He wasn’t sure what to make of this man. Although he had the comforting and foreign feeling that this man meant safety, Asher’s whole body felt misaligned; like he had finally found something he had forgotten. He felt both drawn to him and uneasy.

The man who called himself his Fairy Godfather was smiling absentmindedly at Asher, his expression one of pure contentment and pride. The two stood in silence for a moment until Rose pawed at the ground impatiently.

“Oh right, yes!” The man patted Rose’s neck. “The ball! We need to hurry.”

“The ball?”

The man slid off Rose’s bare back. “I need a pumpkin.”

Asher was starting to get the feeling this man was slightly insane. “A pumpkin?”

“Do you have one?”

“Uh, yes, I think there-”

“Mice!” The man yelled.

Asher jumped out of his skin. He watched, gaping, as his little friends sprinted from the direction of the kitchen to the older man, as if they’d been following his orders their whole lives. They waited patiently at the man’s feet, stood on their hind legs. The man smiled kindly at them. “I want you to collect to finest roses you can find- quickly!”

The mice nodded and off they went, as if they had understood every word. Asher couldn’t believe it. He thought of every time he had spoken to them about his day and his plans. He thought of when they helped him with the suit.

“They- you… You guys know each other?”

The man was walking through Asher’s vegetable gardens carefully, in the direction of the greenhouse; followed closely by Asher and Rose. The sunlight was completely gone now, leaving them all to stumble around in the weak light of the moon.

“Of course, my dear boy! I couldn’t leave you alone with just the company of your stepfather and his horrible sons!”

Asher gawked at the back of the man’s hood. Everything the man said was convincing Asher he was having the weirdest dream of his lifetime.

The three reached the greenhouse and the man held up a hand, signalling for Asher and Rose to stay outside. He disappeared into the greenhouse for mere seconds, then quickly shuffled out holding a small pumpkin. He walked to Rose and put the pumpkin on her back.

“Calm her for me, Erik.” Asher held on to Rose’s neck and stroked her nose gently. “This is going to feel cold.”

The man took out a glowing stick from inside his robes and stepped back.

“What’s that?”

He merely winked at Asher and flicked the stick in the direction of the pumpkin on Rose’s back.

Rays of brilliant light shone out the wand, illuminating the garden. Asher could only stare as the light hit the pumpkin, shaping it into something flatter, into something gold. He held onto Rose as she stepped forwards and backwards curiously, testing the weight on her back. Asher watched in disbelief as the pumpkin formed into a beautiful golden saddle, complete with golden stirrups and black leather girth straps. The stem of the pumpkin turned into a black leather saddle cantle that extended over the golden saddle where the rider would be seated. As he watched, Asher saw the golden saddle be engraved with designs of roses, the embossment making the saddle shine in the moonlight.

Asher stared at his Fairy Godfather.

“You- you just. That was. How-?”

His Fairy Godfather turned to him and smiled sadly. “My boy.” The term of affection made Asher’s arms tingle with warmth. “I know you haven’t had any reason to believe in kindness and magic over these past years, and for that I am truly sorry.” Asher watched his Godfather’s face contort slightly, as if in pain. “I am sorry for how powerless I was against the evil in your life. You suffered much.”

Asher felt a strong urge to comfort the man, but was afraid that he would offend him in some way.

“I tried to help where I could then, but tonight I will put an end to it all. You will go to the ball, and your life will be forever changed. You never failed to be brave and kind, and you deserve so much more.” The Fairy Godfather looked deep into Asher’s eyes. “Do not forget that, Erik.”

Asher looked back into his Godfather’s eyes. An understanding passed between them.

His Fairy Godfather looked at Rose and his face broke into a smile. “Ah! There you lot are!”

Asher looked at Rose, who was a complete ease. In her black, sleek mane were the mice, each holding a de-thorned rose and placing it into her mane.

“And, for the final touch-” his Fairy Godfather flicked the wand once more and the roses became gold, weaving into Rose’s hair and connecting to each other. The gold extended through her mane and passed her ears, settling on Rose’s forehead like a forehead diadem. Out of the roses on lowest part of her mane came black leather reins, resting gracefully on Rose’s neck.

Asher smiled as he stroked Rose’s neck. “Are you comfortable, girl?” Rose blew air out of her nose; her way of expressing contentment. “You look beautiful.”

“That she does,” his Fairy Godmother smiled at his work. “Let’s make sure you, lad, fit your steed.”

Asher barely had time to stutter “What?” before he was enveloped in brilliant light. He felt his suit mend itself, felt it become more formfitting. He looked down at it and saw it darken into the colour of midnight black, accentuated with glittering golden buttons and delicate golden embroidery, similar to that of his saddle. It was still his father’s suit and it was magnificent- completely foreign to the kingdom’s fashion, but Asher didn’t mind, as long as he still felt close to his father. The suit was complete with sleek black shoes embroidered with golden thread, which Asher was sure he would never be able to afford in his whole lifetime.

The golden light faded, and Asher was left standing in the dark of his garden amongst his odd group of friends. He reached towards his neck and was glad to still feel his father’s dog-tags there.

Smiling, he turned to his Fairy Godfather. “Thank you. I owe you a great debt.”

His Godfather gazed at him in pride. “You owe me nothing, child. Now you must go, you are almost an hour late!”

The older man ushered Asher to Rose, where he climbed the saddle with ease. He was surprised to find the saddle to be soft and malleable. It had looked like solid gold.

“I almost forgot!” The Fairy Godfather waved his wand again and Asher saw a pair of beautiful, golden cufflinks appear on his sleeves. The embroidery on them looked familiar.

“The crest of Italy?” He stared at his Godfather.

“Now make sure you enjoy your time, and you come home before midnight! The magic will only last until the last chime of the midnight bell.”

Asher beamed at his Fairy Godfather and at the mice at the man’s feet. “Thank you. Thank you all.”

The man stepped forward and smiled at Asher. He smacked Rose’s hind and off they went, cantering at full speed toward the castle. Asher briefly thought of how he would avoid his stepfamily at the ball, but pushed the thought out of his mind. He wouldn’t allow them to ruin this for him. Not tonight.

Rose brought them to the castle in record time. She rode with the speed and purpose of a racehorse, determined to get Asher to the ball. He was almost sad to see her escorted to the royal stable when they arrived, suddenly feeling alone.

He climbed the many steps to the castle, straightening his clothes and rearranging his hair. There were guards posted on either side of the stairs, which made Asher feel self-conscious. It was eerily quiet outside, so he hurried to the castle doors, watching with awe as the huge, oak doors were opened slowly for him.

The doors opened into a long corridor which Asher stepped into gingerly. The length of the corridor was again flanked by guards and covered in lavish decorations of gold and deep red. A plush red carpet ran throughout the corridor, which Asher followed to the end, where he was starting to hear music and sounds of conversation and laughter.

The doors opened and he was met with more lavishly dressed guards and a royal messenger he did not recognize.

“Your name?” The messenger asked, looking at Asher with an expression he almost didn’t understand. The messenger looked impressed.

Asher remembered his stepbrothers talking about this. They had been debating on what titles to give themselves for when they were announced to the ball. His stomach flipped. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself, lest his stepfamily see him.

“Oh, thank you, but there’s no need.” Asher said quickly, already making his way down the steps. “I just stepped out for a moment. I was already announced earlier.”

“But Sir-”

Asher descended the steps quickly, trying not to catch anyone’s eye. In the crowd it would be easy to hide due to the sheer amount of people in the ball room, so when he stepped off the staircase he sighed with relief.

He looked around and help his breath. In his hurry to stay hidden, he hadn’t seen how lavishly decorated the ballroom was. As in the corridor, drapes of gold and red covered the viewing balconies. Large, glittering chandeliers of diamonds lit up the room in brilliant majesty. The walls were made of stone and the floor of white marble, but the room was made warm by the people dressed in beautiful suits and dresses of different colours and designs. Asher stared in awe at everyone, all beautiful in their own right, serving as puzzle pieces in this majestic picture.

A gentle hand touched his shoulder. “You’re late.”

Asher whirled around and there she was. He heard her gasp and whisper: “You look beautiful.”

Asher gawked at her. He couldn’t believe she was in front of him, looking at him with those enchanting green eyes. Her hair billowed down her back, adorned with a golden circlet. Her dress was the colour of the evening’s champagne. The bodice of her dress glittered gold, which leaked into the breadth of her ball gown. Out of the gown’s hem grew embroidered golden roses out of lace. She was the brightest light in the room.

“Me? You- you look…” Suddenly he noticed the space around her, around them. She stood with authority, and he noticed that those around her were watching her every move. Something clicked into place and he suddenly felt extremely unworthy. “You look like royalty.”

Charlotte smiled. “Not many people don’t know my face.”

“I’m sorry,” he stepped out of her way. “I didn’t know, I should-”

She reached out and took his hand. “Stay.”

Asher looked into her eyes and realized, in that moment, that he was in love with her.

He jumped as the messenger at the top of the steps announced: “The princess has chosen her first partner!”

He looked around frantically and saw everyone looking at him. _This is not good. Where are they?_

Charlotte squeezed his hand, sensing his unease. “Come on, pretty boy.” He flushed as he found her eyes again. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

She led him into the middle of the ballroom, where the space had been cleared and a circle of ball-goers watched them closely.

He stepped closed to Charlotte and whispered: “They’re all looking at you.”

Charlotte laughed. The sound immediately became another thing that filled Asher with warmth. “They’ve seen me all night. They’re looking at you, believe me.”

The music began, and Asher felt relief and familiarity pour into him. He knew this song, and he knew this dance. He silently thanked whoever had chosen it; it had been his favourite to dance along to with his mother.

As they danced, confidence washed over Asher. He led her, their bodies movies together as if they had been made for one another. The crowd became a blur as they danced, only making their presence known when he lifted her and swung her about, with gasps of wonder. At times the dancing pair simply gazed at each other, other times they spoke softly to one another. He told her his mother had taught him how to dance to this song, how this had been one of his parents’ favourite dances. She told him she would love to meet them, at which his heart ached. She also told him that he was the reason she had invited the whole kingdom- she had longed to see him again. When he told her that he was no prince, she told him she didn’t care. She told him she had known he was the one she wanted from the moment he ran into her, at which Asher laughed.

“I love your laugh,” Charlotte told him. “You always look so afraid.”

Asher’s heart skipped a beat, suddenly remembering his stepfamily. He knew they would be in the crowd, that they would’ve seen him. He tried to spot them in the throng of gowns and pillars.

“What’s wrong?”

Asher looked into her eyes and felt as though his heart was being squeezed. He wanted to be with her, be near her. But he knew it couldn’t be. She needed to marry a prince, and he needed to leave before his stepfamily recognized him.

“I-”

An icy feeling captured him. He was grateful the song was coming to an end, because he had found them. They were standing by the musicians, eyes squinting as if they weren’t sure where they’d seen him before.

He completed the dance and bowed to Charlotte; glad he had been able to see her again. “I have to go. Goodbye, princess Charlotte.”

Her eyes widened. “Wait!”

He saw his stepfather whisper something into his sons’ ears and walk to the stairs. He was going to check if Asher was at home.

“Where are you going?” Charlotte clasped his hand, looking into his face desperately. “Please stay.”

He squeezed her hand, trying to gather the courage to tell her how he felt.

“I’m sorry. I-” he took both her hands in his and took one last look at her green eyes. “I love you.”

Asher ran to the stairs. His stepfather was already gone, but he hoped to be faster than him by horseback. He thought about cutting through the woods. As he fled up the stairs and through the door, the messenger that had announced their dance reached out for him, grabbing his sleeve.

“I’m sorry, I need to go!” Asher called out behind him.

“But the princess-!”

Asher tugged his sleeve free, feeling a pang in his chest as he noticed one of his cufflinks fall onto the carpet. He had to leave it. He sprinted passed the oak doors and down the steps where, miraculously, a royal officer was leading Rose to.

“Rose!” He called. He flew down the remainder of the steps and climbed on top of her. His heart was pounding with fear. “We have to make it home before him!”

Before they left, Asher heard the first chime of the midnight bell. Chest heaving and hands sweating, he urged Rose into a canter and they sped off, running for their lives.

* * *

They made it to the house gates so quickly, Asher was sure they must have beaten his stepfather’s carriage. The magic had already worn off as they made it through the gates. Asher remembered taking the roses out of Rose’s mane, and catching his cufflink as his suit turned to rags once more. The pumpkin had melted off, and so he and Rose returned to the house as their normal selves.

He hurried Rose to her stable, thanking her furiously. Asher smiled as he saw Theo sleeping, safely tucked in the corner of the stable, surrounded by warm hay.

He hurried into the kitchen through the backdoor, wanting to feed and water Rose as soon as he could after the strenuous journey. He grabbed a bucket and turned to the sink, reminding himself that he needed to make up a fire.

“I knew it was you.”

Asher froze.

“Why are you dressed like that? Do you think I’m an idiot?”

The boy turned around, shaking. His stepfather was stood by Asher’s cupboard of abandoned tools, a horsewhip in his hands.

“N-”

“I told you,” Sir Tremaine smiled, his expression inhumane. “Not to go to the ball. I told you.” The man walked towards Asher slowly. “And then I see you dancing with the _princess_?”

Asher slowly walked backwards, away from the rage that was seeping off his stepfather. He remembered his stepfamily’s plan to woo the princess. “I- I swear, Sir. I didn’t know she-”

“Be quiet!”

The strength with which Sir Tremaine shouted froze all of Asher’s muscles. He realized, as his lungs contracted and his heart thumped, that he was scared for his life.

“If one of my sons manages to make the princess pick him tonight, I will sell you to the foulest, the cruellest tradesman that will take you, to use you however they wish.” Sir Tremaine smiled evilly, his eyes trailing Asher’s body in a slow, deliberate way. “I will tell everyone you were killed, and I will take your inheritance.”

Asher tried to force his body to stop shaking.

“If neither of my sons succeed tonight because of _your actions_-” The man was in front of Asher now. He grabbed Asher’s jaw and squeezed it painfully, forcing him to look up into his eyes. “-I will make you hurt. I will reduce you into pain until the day you become of age. Then, I will kill you myself.”

Sir Tremaine looked at the fear in the boy’s eyes and smirked. He pushed Asher’s face away from him, into the wall.

“Take off your shirt.”

Asher stared at the horsewhip, pure terror running through his veins. He had been whipped before, but with belts, and for amusement. Sir Tremaine had been made unstable with fury, and this whip had been abandoned because the leather had frayed, making the whip jagged. Asher wasn’t sure if the man could keep from killing him tonight.

He looked into his stepfather’s eyes and grit his teeth.

“No.”

Sir Tremaine laughed, completely unfazed. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

With the speed and power that scared Asher to the core, Sir Tremaine took both of the boy’s hands and held the together. Asher was strong, he could have easily escaped his stepfather, but he was brutally subdued by a punch to the side of his head, on his temple. As Asher reeled, Sir Tremaine tied the boy’s hands together with rope and led the boy outside, pulling on the remainder of the rope like a leash.

Asher struggled as hard as he could, screaming at his stepfather to stop.

“Be quiet you wretched boy.” Sir Tremaine growled as he tied Asher to Rose’s hoof cleaning post. “I should’ve done this long ago.” He took out the horse whip from his formal jacket and snarled, walking behind the boy.

Asher felt his stepfather rip his shirt open from the back. “Please don’t do this- _Please_, Sir, I’m-”

He screamed as white-hot flames seared into his back. The heat spread through his entire body, throbbing angrily.

“I _said_-” Sir Tremaine yelled as he whipped Asher, harder with each swing. “_Be quiet._”

Asher tried to be quiet, tried not to cry- but it was impossible. His screams covered the garden, his blood trickled down his back. He heard noises in the stable beside him. Every time he screamed a horse neighed and a cat hissed. The geese honked in fear and Rose slammed herself against the stable door.

“I should kill you right now.” Sir Tremaine snarled as he was filled with adrenaline, whipping Asher mercilessly. He smiled as the boy fell to his knees, trying to hold in his screams. It was when the boy merely whimpered at every slash, curling into himself like a ball, a mess of blood and dirt, that Sir Tremaine ceased.

“Clean this up. I want it gone by the time I’ve picked up my sons.”

Asher didn’t hear him. He didn’t hear his stepfather leave, and he didn’t hear him return with his sons. He barely mumbled in pain as Alexander and Durrell dragged him into the attic and locked him there, still bleeding. He couldn’t hear himself breathe; he couldn’t hear the creaks in the ground. He felt nothing except his back. The pain, the itch, the cold, the wet. Asher fell asleep and would not wake until late the next day.

* * *

When Asher woke, he was not sure of where he was. The deep sleep his body had resorted to made his surroundings foreign. All he knew was that the sound of horses had woken him. It took several minutes for Asher to realize he was in the attic once more.

He was shirtless and cold, but for that he felt grateful. The cold numbed his back, and he did not want to reawaken the pain it was in. He felt it sting, but knew that if he kept perfectly still, he would be numb for a few more moments.

He found he was lying on his stomach, facing away from the door. Asher knew he couldn’t be here any longer. He heard visitors downstairs, and knew that he could make an escape if his stepfamily was distracted. He would collect his things and Theo and take Rose. He would ride until he reached another kingdom and find a home there, where hopefully someone would take him in as an apprentice, despite his age. He grieved for his past home and all the memories of his parents in it, but he couldn’t stay brave for much longer. He had to leave, _now_.

He tried to get up, but found that he couldn’t and fell back onto the floor. Confused, he tried again, this time, as his muscles warmed up, he lifted himself off the ground slightly, gasped in pain, and fell back unto the floor, the impact squeezing tears out of his eyes. Asher couldn’t help but panic.

_I can’t get up._

He lay on the floor for a few more moments before trying again, and found he was able to crawl. That wouldn’t be useful for escaping, but as he crawled to the door, the panic seeped out of him slightly. Exhausted, he sat by the door. Asher waited for a while until he caught his breath, then tried to open the door.

Panic seeped back into him as he realized it was locked. His chest felt tight. He thought of breaking the door open, but he couldn’t even stand. He was completely useless and he was panicking. His breathing quickened and he felt claustrophobic. Asher knew what this was. He had experienced these- almost attacks- many times since his mother died. He felt trapped, he felt useless, and he felt alone. He was panicking.

He tried to think of something else, taking deep breaths and trying to become aware of his surroundings. Asher could feel himself slipping and even tried to stretch his back, hoping the pain would calm him. None of this worked. He felt like he was about to lose everything. He heard yelling downstairs and knew his chance of escape was slimming.

_What do I do? What do I do?_

What would his mother do?

Asher shifted, and heard something fall out of his pocket. It was the cufflink from the night before, with the crest of Italy embroidered on it.

Asher’s body filled with warmth once more as he remembered that night- dancing with his princess to the same song he and his mother danced to. His back was burning, and exhaustion was overtaking him, but he felt the panic escape as he hummed the tune. He hummed quietly at first, then louder, more confident as the memory of the song comforted him and eased his pain. He leant his head against the wall and smiled, eyes closed, humming loudly. He had the distinct feeling that all would be well.

Asher heard the shouting downstairs quieten for a moment, then spark back up with new passion. He recognized his stepfather’s voice but not the other. Suddenly the attic echoed with the noise of footsteps making their way into Asher’s room. His heart pounded as he realized his stepfather would’ve heard him humming and was coming to silence him. As fast as he could, he shuffled away from the door to the other side of the room; he ignored his pain as he pushed his back into the wall as much as he could.

He jumped as the door flung open, sure his stepfather’s face would be the last he ever saw.

But he was wrong. The door revealed someone else, someone who was searching the room hopefully.

“_Charlotte?_”

Her green eyes found him. “It’s you!” She ran towards him, a horrified expression on her face. “What- how? What did they _do_ to you?”

Charlotte turned around and called: “I need help! Immediately!”

Asher reached out to her weakly, smiling. He relished in the warmth of her hands as she held his face, looking him up and down. He didn’t know what he looked like, but according to the horror in her eyes, he assumed it wasn’t good.

But he couldn’t find it within himself to care. Charlotte was here. He felt her hands on his face and leant into the foreign gentleness of her touch. Asher smiled at her again, not quite believing she was there. He didn’t know if he would last another day, and there was something he desperately wanted her to know, something he had avoided telling her, something that felt so personal, he hadn’t been sure if he would ever feel so in love with another that he would want them to know him completely.

He took one of her hands in his as he felt himself slipping into exhaustion again. He heard people run into the room towards them, one of them gasping as they announced: “This cufflink on the floor… It matches the one from the ball!”

But for now, Charlotte’s face was the only thing he saw, looking at him with genuine concern. He didn’t have much time.

“M- My name. My name is Erik.”

* * *

There’s a story that is always told on one day of the year. The day the whole kingdom told their children of; the day that changed the kingdom forever. Erik thought of it often, but it was only on July 12th that the kingdom would celebrate it with him: the story of the day Erik James met Charlotte Charmant.

He was a house slave, forced to live under the oppressive rule of his stepfamily, and she was a headstrong princess. They were of one heart, living on different sides of the kingdom- and they’d met completely by accident. Erik had run right into a blacksmith’s apprentice who had been testing the balance of the princess’ sword, and she had knocked him off his feet.

“He didn’t recognize me- can you believe that?” Charlotte would say in mocking disbelief every time she told this story. Her smile dazzled him to this day, and Erik nudged her playfully.

“You were wearing normal clothes, hiding from your mother’s guards,” he reminded her as she laughed in remembrance.

They were sat in a lavish room, surrounded by their closest friends who had once more asked them to tell their story. Charlotte noticed Erik looking at her with those beautiful brown eyes that made her breath catch in her lungs. “He asked me if I was an apprentice,” she chuckled. “Had I been, I would’ve kissed him right then and there.“

After Charlotte found Erik in the attic, his stepfamily had been banished and he had been transported directly to the Royal Infirmary, where he stayed for several days. His journey to health was long and hard; but Charlotte never left his side, even after his wounds healed. The two knew they loved each other, and had grown to know one another deeply. They promised, with all their hearts, that they would always be together.

Five years later on July 12th, Erik asked for Charlotte’s hand, and the pair got married. After a few more, happy years, Charlotte gave birth to a girl who they named Rosanna, after the child’s paternal grandmother.

Erik held his daughter in his lap, bouncing her and cherishing her giggles. He felt Charlotte’s body hum beside him as she told their story while running her fingers casually through Eric’s hair. He was only barely listening. He was enchanted by the little toddler on his lap. She had thick, black, curly hair and an olive skin tone, and was now giggling at the old cat on the sofa beside her, pawing at her playfully. Even as a child, she was the spitting image of her namesake; her face made her own only by the familiar green of her eyes, and her mother’s distinct pout.

Erik had known from the moment that he’d woken up in the Royal Infirmary and he knew it now.

They would live _happily ever after_.


End file.
